Dust on the Lens

The brass gears are frozen now, locked in a silent reckoning with a sky that has long since moved on. Cold moonlight streams through the fractured dome, painting constellations on the floorboards.

A single ledger lies open, pages brittle as dried moths, recording the slow transit of Jupiter while the wooden chair rots beneath the weight of forgotten calculations.

We measured the infinite from this narrow room, tracing lines between distant fires, believing that to name a thing was to hold it fast against the dark. Now, only the dust settles, keeping its own slow time.